


Plasticity

by MillyVeil



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Angst, Bad Decisions, Bathroom Sex, But it's completely consensual, Chibs is fucked up, Drinking, Drunk Sex, Juice is fucked up too, Juice is reluctant at first, M/M, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-13 04:38:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20168284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MillyVeil/pseuds/MillyVeil
Summary: "Chibs," Juice says against his mouth. He brings his hand up between them, lets it rest flat against Chibs’ chest. Not shoving, just a light pressure.A warning, Chibs thinks and he bares his teeth against Juice’s lips in a grin that feels a little crazy. Maybe he’s getting the fight he was looking for. Either that or he’s getting Juice, and he’s okay with either.ORChibs is drunk and in a bad place. He finds Juice in the bathroom. A blowjob happens. And weed. And a half-assed therapy session. Chibs doesn't know it, but this is the beginning of something.





	Plasticity

**Author's Note:**

> Sons of Anarchy, anyone? 
> 
> Originally posted on LJ back in... 2011? Season 4-ish.

The clubhouse is hotter than hell and the stale air in there is saturated with music, smoke, and bullshit. It’s the usual crowd - patches, prospects, wannabes, and crow eaters, sweating and drinking like there’s no tomorrow. Chibs watches Tig throw his head back and laugh at something across the hazy room. Tig’s bouncing a lithe little thing on his knee like she’s a toddler, which is a little creepy, considering the fact that he’ll most likely tap that later on tonight. Bobby’s next to Tig, worshipping some seriously massive cleavage with his face, only occasionally coming up to breathe.

Tig catches Chibs’s glance and shoots him a toothy grin, beckoning him over with a tilt of the head. Chibs waves the offer away. He loves his brothers, would die for each and every one without hesitation and without regret, but tonight he really can’t stand any of them.

He lifts the bottle to take another swig and finds it empty. He has no idea when that happened, last he remembers it was at least a quarter full. With a groan, he gets up from the sagging couch and the floor tilts for a moment. He staggers but regains his balance, no thanks to the crow eater clinging to his arm. She’s been crooning in his ear all night and he’s sick of her. Of everyone. With a shove he gets rid of her and she stumbles backwards into one of the bar stools, knocking it over.

He ignores her cursing, takes a step towards the bar and feels something crunch under his boot. He looks down at the fractured glass and twisted metal of his shades. Fucking hell. Those were his favorites, too.

Phil smiles at him from behind the bar. His round face is flushed from the heat, his curly hair a crazy halo around his head. "What can I get you?"

So nice and polite. Always so bloody polite. Chibs suddenly wants to beat that right out of him and Phil must see something in his face, because the smile turns cautious, worried. Chibs rounds the counter and shoves the massive body out of the way. He squats down and has to grab the shelf to keep from falling over. The bottles glint in the light behind the bar and he grabs one that looks at least a little like whisky and makes his way back to the couch.

People are avoiding him tonight, taking themselves out of his path. The rational part of him is grateful. Another, not quite so rational part is disappointed that it looks like he’s going to have do all the work if he’s to get an excuse to let lose the violence that’s been simmering under his skin lately. He rests the bottle against his forehead and closes his eyes. It’s been a bad couple of weeks. The shit going on within the club is bad enough, but on top of that, his sleeping’s been messed up. He keeps waking up with his heart trying to beat its way out his chest. Dreams of Kerrianne, out of sight, screaming, begging for help. Colin - the way Chibs remembers him when they were kids, all gangly limbs and freckles - holding a gun to Chibs’s head, telling him coldly that it should have been Chibs to die bloody, not his Paddy. Chibs, covered to the elbows with slick redness, pressing his hands against the chest of a faceless body and unable to stop the blood welling up between his fingers. It’s nothing new, just the usual patchwork of stockpiled shit all deciding to break out of their little hidey holes at the same time.

He looks up with a growl when another bottle knocks against his. Happy grins at him from three inches away. He’s shitfaced, his eyes all but crossing. The woman on his arm has the brains to try to drag him away, but Hap digs his heels in and isn’t going anywhere. He leans in and shouts something that is lost in the heavy music. He looks at Chibs expectantly, and Chibs have no clue what he’s waiting for. Hap just keeps staring at him, then starts laughing. He laughs so hard he loses his balance and takes a dive in the same spot Chibs almost did. The crow eater on his arm tries valiantly to keep them both on their feet, but there’s no way the pint-sized woman can support Happy’s weight, and they both go down.

Jax ends up in their trajectory and narrowly avoids winding up underneath Happy. His beer gets knocked out of his hands and spills, foaming yellowish-white on the floor. Jax looks fall-down drunk, too, crooked grin and lazy lids, but he’s surprisingly steady when he hauls Happy to his feet. Chibs hides a wince as Happy punches Jax’s shoulder amicably – at least that’s probably what Happy’s aiming for - and tows the crow eater behind him towards the back. Jax rubs his arm before grabbing the beer bottle from the floor and lobbing it over the bar in the general vicinity of the trashcan there.

The couch sags as Jax sits down. Chibs gets busy digging around for the pack of smokes he knows he’s got somewhere. He wishes he could pull his shades over his eyes. Jax’s too damn smart for his own good, and Chibs is too bloody hammered to give him the run-around tonight. He finds the pack and offers one to Jax, who shakes his head. But he takes the bottle when Chibs offers it. Jax takes a large swig, makes a disgusted face and turns the bottle in his hands, squinting at the label. He hands it back with a shake of his head.

The crow eater Chibs got rid of approaches again, but this time she puts one knee on the couch next to Jax, leans in and says something in his ear. Even at this distance, Chibs can feel the perfume she’s wearing, cloying and heavy over the sweat, and that’s another thing he can’t stand tonight.

Jax is kinder than Chibs, he just shrugs the woman off. He’s always been a real nice kid, Chibs thinks as he puts the lighter to the cig. He leans his head against the backrest and watches the blue smoke rise towards the hazy ceiling. He pretends he can’t feel Jax’s eyes on him.

Time passes. People come and go. A brawl breaks out, but it’s too fucking hot to fight so it dies down just as quickly. Money changes hands around the pool table. Jax keeps glancing at him, but bless the lad, the question doesn’t come. He seems content to just sit there and watch the freak show in front of them.

Jax moves on eventually. As does the crow eater, her ego tired of being ignored. Chibs takes a swig from the bottle and understands the face Jax made. The swill is nasty. And it sure as hell isn’t whisky. He gets sole custody of the couch until Juice, amped up over something or other, shows up and ignores the ‘fuck off’ sign lit up in Neon over Chibs’s head. Juice hasn’t more than fired up the laptop he’s carrying before Tig is draped over the armrest of the couch, loudly demanding porn.

"Go make your own porn, man," he hears Juice tells Tig during a temporary lull in the music. "You’ve got plenty of available pussy right there."

"Nah." Tig elbows Chibs in the ribs as he squeezes down between them. "Too much work."

Juice rolls his eyes and ignores him. Chibs reaches past Tig and hands Juice the bottle. Juice just sniffs it and puts it down on the floor next to his feet.

When no porn is forthcoming, Tig soon gets restless and leaves.

Juice talks but Chibs isn’t really listening. He stretches his legs and slouches down further. He throws his arm over his eyes and smokes until the pack is empty, adding butt after butt to a half-empty beer bottle long gone stale. The crowd thins. Someone turns the volume down a few notches. Chibs feels like he just blinked but he must have dozed off, because suddenly Juice is gone and so is everyone else. He doesn’t have to check a watch to know that real late has rolled over into real early.

He briefly thinks about staying right there on the couch, but his back will be fucked up for days, so he nixes that idea. With a groan he scrubs his knuckles over his eyes and gets up. He’s sweaty and thirsty and his t-shirt clings unpleasantly to his skin under the cut. The small kitchen is dark. He fumbles for the light switch, squinting as the overhead lights come on. Leaning over the sink, he drinks straight from the tap then tilts his head and lets the cool water wash over his face and hair. When his neck starts protesting the sideways position, he turns the water off, folds his arms on the edge of the sink and puts his forehead down.

He’s inching towards the mother of all hangovers.

With a groan, he forces himself upright and heads back into the common area. It looks like a war zone. The air is still thick with bluish smoke. Broken glass, bottles and overflowing makeshift ashtrays are everywhere. A black lace bra and a t-shirt is hanging over the back of one of the bar stools. Someone is snoring in a corner, but apart from that, the place is deserted.

Chibs makes it down the corridor to the bathroom in the back, hand braced against the wall for balance. No one’s around to see, so he doesn’t give a fuck.

He walks in on Juice, bent over the sink, rinsing his face. The air in the bathroom is hotter than in the bar. Unmoving. It smells like air freshener with an undertow of piss. The music bleeds through the thin walls, tinny and distorted. Chibs stares at the lean line of Juice’s back, his brain stuttering and then short-circuiting.

Juice runs his hands over his face and head one last time before standing up and shaking the water from his fingers. An undignified yelp escapes him when he catches sight of Chibs.

"Jesus." He squints at Chibs in the fluorescent light, hand over his heart. "Didn’t realize anyone was still conscious."

"Where you been?" Chibs’s voice is hoarse.

Jucie wipes his hands on the front of his black jeans. "Fell asleep in the back."

Chibs closes the door behind him and locks it.

Juice watches him do it. "You okay, man?" He sounds cautious, his eyes flickering to the door and then back to Chibs.

"No," Chibs says.

There’s no slow build-up, just the sudden impulse to back Juice into the wall. And that’s what he does. Juice’s shoulders hit the wall with a thud that makes the mirror rattle restlessly. Chibs grabs the back of his neck and moves in close, presses his knee between Juice’s and claims the space there. Juice’s skin is damp with sweat under his fingers.

"What—"

Chibs’s mouth catches the surprised noises. It’s rough, no finesse whatsoever, just want and need and the fuck the rest. Juice smells of hand soap and that fucking aftershave that makes Chibs think about pimps and dark backstreets in Belfast. He grabs a handful of t-shirt and presses closer. Juice has gone tense against him, trapped between Chibs and the wall. He’s not moving, not even breathing, but there’s no doubt in Chibs’s mind that if he wanted to, Juice could beat his way out of this position.

He licks at the seam of Juice’s lips, blood rushing lower. He’s fucking buzzing, all of a sudden, like white noise is running in his veins.

"Chibs," Juice says against his mouth. He brings his hand up between them, lets it rest flat against Chibs’ chest. Not shoving, just a light pressure.

A warning, Chibs thinks and he bares his teeth against Juice’s lips in a grin that feels a little crazy. Maybe he’s getting the fight he was looking for. Either that or he’s getting Juice, and he’s okay with either.

He grinds his hips into Juice’s thigh and lets his mouth wander down the side of his face, down to the crook of his neck. He flattens his tongue, licks the salt from Juice’s skin in a wide, wet strip. The pressure from Juice’s hand grows stronger and Juice tilts his head away, escaping Chibs’ mouth.

"Stop. Chibs, what you doing, man?"

"You," Chibs says and reaches down betewen them, cupping Juice none too gently.

Juice inhales with a hiss and goes to his toes, his eyes wide.

Somehow Chibs works Juice’s belt and jeans open and he reaches down, his fingertips trailing the coarse hair down. There’s not much room, but he manages to wrap his fingers around Juice, his eyes locked on his own hand disappearing into the dark heat of Juice’s jeans.

"Goin’ commando, huh?"

He hears Juice swallow hard.

"I can make ya feel so good, Juicy-boy," Chibs mumbles and flexes his fingers for emphasis. There’s a soft huff of air against his ear and he looks up. Juice’s eyes are closed, his mouth a thin line.

"Come on," Chibs mutters and gives another twist-squeeze. Juice soft cock twitches under his fingers and Chibs, god, Chibs is rock hard now. "Gonna take real good care of ya," he breathes into Juice’s ear. "Real good."

Juice’s hand falls from Chibs’s chest and comes to rest next to him, pressed to the wall. His fingers are clenched in a fist.

Chibs pulls his hand up from the warm, sweaty confinement of Jucie’s jeans and manhandles him around, pushes him into the wall. He coils his fingers into the belt loops of Juice’s jeans and yanks them down, exposing smooth skin and wiry muscles.

"Okay," Juice says, his words muffled. It doesn’t sound like he’s talking to Chibs. "Yeah, okay."

With his boot, Chibs nudges Juice’s feet as far apart as they go with the jeans around his knees. He wets his own palm with his tongue. His skin smells like Juice. A full-body shiver goes through Juice when he wraps his arm around Juice’s side and closes his hand around him properly. Chibs presses his body along the long, hard line of Juice’s back, grinds his hard-on against him. It feels great. It feels amazing.

It takes a while before Juice’s reluctant cock finally decides it wants to play for real, but waiting fifteen years to finish Jimmy O has taught Chibs patience.

Juice turns his head, presses his cheek against the wall. Chibs rubs his cheek against the ink on Juice’s scalp and at the same time brings his thumb up over the head of Juice’s cock, catching the wetness there, smearing it out. Juice’s breath stutters and he starts moving against Chibs’s hand. Chibs brings his other arm around and cups Juice’s balls.

"Atta boy," he says and nestles his face into the crook of Juice’s neck.

Juice moans, his fingers splayed wide against the wall for support, and it’s the hottest thing Chibs has ever seen. Chibs uses one hand to start working on his own belt, keeps the other moving over Juice’s cock. He curses the fucking belt when it doesn’t want to give in, but finally, fucking finally, it cooperates. The chink-clink of the metal is loud in the bathroom, and Juice suddenly freezes, his whole body stiffening.

"Jesus," he whispers.

The word is like a two-by-four to the side of Chibs’s head. Juice sounds fucking terrified.

Reality drops back in, ice cold clarity coming with it. Chibs lets go, snatches his hand away like Juice’s skin is suddenly burning him. Juice doesn’t move. He stands there, face pressed against the wall with his jeans around his knees. The door knob catches Chibs in the back, and he realizes he’s at the other side of the room, backing away.

Nausea burns at the back of his mouth. His legs fold under him and he slides down along the door. He pulls his knees up and feels like crying. "Jesus _fuck_," he moans. He buries his face in his hands.

The only sound in the bathroom is the music bleeding in from outside and Chibs’s ragged breathing. Nothing else. Then finally, _finally_, the whisper of Juice’s clothes being pulled up and arranged. Chibs presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. He doesn’t want to look up, doesn’t ever want to look the kid in the eye again, not after this. He thumps the back of his head against the door. There’s no repairing this.

Chibs can always plead temporary insanity induced by booze. He didn’t know what he was doing. And yeah, by the way, he doesn’t remember a thing after Jax left. But Juice, that’s another business. He isn’t drunk. He will remember this. And things will change between them. Forever. He knocks his head back again, harder. And again. At least that pain is something he knows how to deal with.

"Jesus, man. Don’t do that."

Chibs’s eyes fly open when a hand slips in between the door and his skull. Juice kneels in front of him, one hand on Chibs’s knee for balance, the other cupping the back of his head.

Juice opens his mouth, but then closes it again without saying anything. His fingers tighten around Chibs’s knee. Chibs blinks away the sudden heat from his eyes, squeezes them shut. He’s so fucking tired.

"If I move my hand, will you promise you won’t try to bash your head in?"

Chibs exhales slowly, then nods. His head feels heavy, like it’s made of lead. Juice waits a few seconds, as if he doesn’t quite believe him, then withdraws his hand. The hand on the knee disappears as well, but then Chibs feels Juice settle in next to him on the floor, close enough that their arms touch. He cracks his eyes. Juice is mirroring his position, knees pulled up, elbows resting on them.

"What the hell is going on with you?" Juice asks.

It’s an echo of the question Chibs asked Juice a few months back in this very room, when the kid was still reeling from all the shit that had piled up. He’d known Juice was in a bad place, but the state he’d been in that day, Jesus, it still does unpleasant things to Chibs’s stomach to think about the crap the kid had pulled.

When he doesn't get an answer, Juice leans over and grabs the hoodie that’s thrown over the chair in the corner. The skin on his neck is clean, clear. The marks from that chain had faded quick enough, but something is still different with Juice. Chibs can’t quite put his finger on it, but at least he isn’t getting those ‘danger-danger-danger’ vibes that had him bracing for disaster.

Juice comes up with a joint and hunches over to light it. He makes sure it’s lit properly before holding it out to Chibs. The joint is too damn good looking for Juice to have rolled it. Probably Bobby or Jax’s handiwork. Chibs inhales a lungful of harsh smoke and holds it in until his lungs burns. He hands the joint back to Juice before closing his eyes and stretching his legs out in front of him.

"What’s wrong?"

Chibs shakes his head, blows the smoke out slowly. There is so much wrong right now there’s nowhere to begin. Old wrongs and new wrongs. And now, all thanks to his own stupidity, some really new wrongs.

"Something up with your girls?"

Chibs wipes his nose with the back of his hand. The buzz of booze is gone like it was never there, all that’s left is a stony tightness in his gut. He reaches out his hand for the joint again. "Nah. They’re fine."

Juice sits back against the wall, stretches his legs in front of him, too. "Good." His voice has that cautious edge it always gets when he mentions Fiona and Kerrianne. He probably thinks the topic's taboo because Chibs doesn’t usually talk about the part of his life still back in Belfast. It’s not taboo. It’s just habit. A remnant from the bad old days when not thinking about what he lost was the only way to get through the day, the only way to stay upright.

They pass the joint back and forth. The air is still stifling in the small room and Chibs feels sticky and overheated and tired, god, he’s so fucking tired and he doesn’t get it, doesn’t get why Juice is still here, next to him. Why he hasn’t knocked a few teeth from his mouth and told him to go sleep it off. It’s probably what Chibs would’ve done if he’d been in Juice’s place.

Juice takes a final hit, then kills the joint against the tiled floor between them. He groans as he gets to his feet and flushes what’s left down the toilet.

"Come on," he says and reaches a hand down to Chibs.

Chibs stares at the hand. A ditched attempt at a therapy session and some weed? It’s too bloody easy, and if it’s something he’s learned over the years it’s that life’s never that kind. Never ever. But hell, he’s not about to waste an opportunity to get out of the shithole he dug himself tonight so he takes Juice’s hand. Juice hauls him to his feet, supporting him when he stumbles. The room is spinning now, sickly, lazily. He reaches behind him and finds the door knob, turns the lock and pulls the door open. He can’t get out of here fast enough. Has to put distance between himself and Juice, between himself and the near disaster Juice just steered them away from.

Juice’s arm reaches past him and pushes the door closed again.

"No." There’s no room for argument in his voice.

Chibs closes his eyes. He knew it. Bloody knew it.

Juice’s hand is warm against his chest, pressing him back into the door, and Chibs suddenly feels like lying down, baring his throat and his balls and letting Juice take his fists to him. Inflicting pain has a strange way of soothing things over.

He flinches when he feels Juice’s fingers on the buttons of his jeans.

"Juice—"

"Shut up," Juice tells him and works the buttons with a strange intensity. The music has stopped. There’s nothing but silence on the other side of the door now. Juice’s fingers brush against the skin on Chibs’s hips as they sneak in under the waistband of his jeans. The key chain jingles as Chibs’ jeans go down, along with his underwear.

Juice slides down to his knees. He looks up at Chibs through his eyelashes, runs his hand up the inside of Chibs’s knee. "You really want this?"

Fuck. Chibs feels like banging his head against the wall again. Juice on his knees._ Does_ he want that? Before tonight, he’d never thought about the kid that way, but the instant tightness deep in his gut when he walked in on Juice was very real.

"I’ll give you this, man," Juice tells him, very quietly. “I just gotta know.”

Chibs scrubs his hands over his face. He’s never been one to lie to himself, why the hell should he start now. Yes. He wants this. He does. He swallows dryly and manages a nod. Juice doesn’t move for a moment, then nods in return. He looks dead serious, like he’s just agreed to a suicide mission and Chibs feels half a second of regret before Juice’s hand wraps around his cock and Chibs’s brain goes AWOL.

The angle of Juice’s hand is fucked up, the pace off, but Chibs doesn’t care. He lets his head fall back and sucks in a breath through his nose, his teeth clenched hard enough to make his jaw ache. The coiling tension that’s been wrapped around his spine for weeks slithers lower again, changed into something hard and sharp by Juice’s touch.

Juice gives him a quick, one-second glace before shifting on his knees and leaning in closer. The wet warmth of his mouth on Chibs’s cock wrenches a groan from Chibs’s lips. Juice’s hand still works at the base, and he’s licking and sucking at the tip, going a little deeper every time.

The bathroom feels like an oven, like the air has been sucked right out of there, and a bead of sweat tickles down the side of Chibs’s face. He wipes it away with his forearm. Juice’s tongue makes a detour around the sensitive edge of the head and Chibs’s fingers curl into fists. Jesus. He’s hard again. A one-second huff of dark laughter escapes him. His cock is gonna have whiplash tomorrow from the back and forth.

He uncurls one hand and places it on the side of Juice’s head, dragging the pads of his fingers against the ink there. The skin is soft. Warm. Juice looks up at the touch and Chibs can’t tear his eyes away from the sight of Juice’s mouth working his spit-slick cock. He wets his lips and watches Juice work. The blowjob’s got about as much finesse as Chibs’s fevered kiss a few minute ago, but there’s suction and friction and no teeth, and Chibs isn’t picky, not tonight.

Juice is slowly taking him deeper and it’s all Chibs can do to not grab the back of his head with both hands and just fuck his face. As if sensing that very thought, Juice’s hand comes up against Chibs’s hip, holding him back.

Chibs's breath is starting to sound ragged, desperate. He’s not going to last here. He realizes his hand is moving over the side of Juice’s head, stroking, caressing. He doesn’t give a fuck. All he cares about it Juice on his knees in front of him and that sweet, sweet mouth on his cock. The heat rises in his chest, up his neck and over his face. Everything in him is going tight, tense. The blood roars in his ears, pulsing with each pounding beat of his heart and he taps a warning against the side of Juice’s head, but the kid doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull back. Chibs comes with a shudder.

When he opens his eyes, Juice is still milking him. The sensation goes from pleasant to feeling like a live wire against his cock in a few seconds and he pushes Juice back. Juice sits back on his heels and looks up at him, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. His mouth looks red, chafed. Used.

Chibs tries to find something to say, but comes up empty. ‘Thanks, brother’, doesn’t quite seem to cut it, not after this. He tips his head back and runs his fingers thought his hair, wraps his fingers in the strands and pulls a little at it, just to feel the sting. The pain feels weirdly distant. _He_ feels weirdly distant. Probably the booze. Or the orgasm. Or the weed.

Or maybe he’s just messed up in the head.

Juice twists and gets to his feet with a groan. He does a two second stretch and steps over to the sink. Chibs stares at his back for a moment, then pulls his pants up, twitching when the clothes scrape over his cock.

Juice takes his time washing his hands. When he’s done he leans heavily against the sink, both hands braced against it. His head is down, his shoulders tense. “You okay?” he asks without turning around.

"Aye." Chibs manages to get his jeans buttoned with shaking hands.

Juice doesn’t move, he keeps staring down into the white porcelain of the sink. "_We_ okay?"

Chibs looks down at his scuffed boots, at the spot on the floor where Juice kneeled a moment ago. “We’re okay.”

He really wants to believe it.

* * *

Chibs wakes on the couch the next morning when someone slams the front door to the clubhouse. He groans and immediately regrets it. His head is pounding, his skull feels like it’s too small to hold his brain. A second later, the nausea rolls in like ice water under his skin, prickling along his ribs, wrapping around the back of his neck. He manages to get his hands on the trashcan next to the couch and throws up.

When his stomach decides that’s it for now, he spits the bile from his mouth and collapses onto his side. A chair has been pulled up to the couch. A tall glass of water and three Advils are sitting on the seat.

Juice is nowhere to be found. It’ll be four and a half days before Chibs sees him again.

~The End ~


End file.
